I Have Sailed the World, Beheld Its Wonders From the Dardanelles to the Mountains of Peru...

But there's NO PLACE LIKE LONDON!!!

Earlier this week, I was given the opportunity of a lifetime. A workshop on the stage of the Globe Theatre in London. The cost of the trip was simply another component of the tuition, but with the experience I had, I would have gladly paid out of pocket.

The trip started off in the parking lot of Millennium Point at 8am. My classes usually start around 9 during the week, so this wasn't much of a chore. But considering that for the summer leading up to coming here I worked for a theater company and didn't really have to go to work until 6pm, I've still been having a little trouble getting to sleep at a decent hour. With a little espresso and the knowledge that I could sleep on the bus, however, I walked aboard and took a seat at the back with my classmate Amie.

After about 2 hours of enjoying the beautiful English countryside, I just couldn't keep my eyes open anymore. My apologies to the citizenry of Oxfordshire. I'll be sure to take some time to appreciate the area when I've had more than five and a half hours of sleep.

By the time I woke up, we had already arrived within the city limits of London, denying me the opportunity to sing "There's No Place Like London" as we pulled into the city, something about which I'm sure my bus-mates are heart-broken. I woke up just in time to see such landmarks from the bus as the Sherlock Holmes statue on Baker Street, King's Cross Station, and the Blackfriar's Bridge...just quickly enough to recognize what they are, fumble to get my camera out of my bag, and aim it, only to realize that the bus was now a block away.

The bus pulled to a stop on the South Bank side of the Southwark Bridge. We then proceeded to walk down New Globe Walk, on the banks of the Thames, until...

We arrived at the Globe with about 30 minutes to spare until our first activity of the day, a guided tour of the theater complex. A group of us then decided to find some place where we could get something to eat. We decided on The Real Greek, a restaurant a few blocks away that specializes in...real Greek food.

(We decided to submit this photo to the good people at Mythos Beer for their new advertising campaign. "Mythos: When you're looking for a good Greek beer, Choose Mythos!...because it's the only one the Greeks have.)

As much as we all wanted to settle in, order a few bottles of Ouzo, and start smashing some plates, we were on a tight schedule. So I had to quickly eat my prawns and spanakopita and head back to the Globe for the tour.

I'm willing to admit that the tour wasn't entirely necessary, especially considering the tour guide conducted it as though we were a bunch of 7-year-olds on a field trip. It was nice to sit in the galleries and hear some facts, but there was a part of me at the back of my head that wanted to shout:

"Listen, Lady. I'm a Master's student! I've been studying theater for ten years! When all the other guys were hanging out, partying, and talking to girls, I was studying ridiculous stuff like this! I already know all these random facts you're talking about! I LIVE FOR THIS!!1!"

My subconscious outburst aside, the tour was enjoyable enough and we went back to the lobby to wait for our instructor for our first workshop, entitled "Playing the Globe" with Yolanda Vasquez, a woman who had performed at the Globe several times and who also works as an Education Practitioner. With about 10 minutes to spare before the workshop, she came up to us, introduced herself, and told us where we should all meet. As she was talking, I remember thinking that she both looked and sounded familiar. The minute she walked off, I immediately pulled out my smart phone and looked her up. Despite her extensive work on British television, as well as her respectable theater experience, including her appearances at the Globe, this was the credit that immediately stood out...

A movie that I've seen so many times, so many Saturdays when it was on HBO and I needed a way to kill a couple of hours. Yolanda Vasquez played Sister Susan (seen on the right).

Although I'm sure this isn't the part she'd want to be most remembered for, it was a cool little add-on to the overall experience. I did play it cool throughout the workshop, but before we went into the theater, that little subconscious of me, yet again blabbing whatever it wanted from the back of my head, was saying:

"Ask her what it was like to shoot The Air Up There, Eric! Ask her what it was like to work with Kevin Bacon! Ask her if Kevin Bacon's nice in real life. I bet he's nice! Don't you think Kevin Bacon is nice, Eric? He was in Footloose, y'know? You remember that movie? LET'S DAAAAANCE!!!"

After getting my subconscious to shut up, Yolanda lead us to the stage. She took us up a few flights of stairs, showed us through the door marked "Staff Only" and finally, there it was. An enormous wooden door with iron bolts and a massive iron ring handle that looked as though it had been stolen from a Medieval dungeon. She opened the door and showed us our way in and there we were.

Your eyes take a few minutes to adjust to the sudden darkness as you find yourself backstage. Suddenly, the strong aroma of oak fills your nostrils. You seem to lose almost all sense of direction until you see it...

Like the light at the end of the tunnel, the main doors onto the stage appear in front of you. You slowly pick up your feet and steadily march towards the stage, your footsteps reverberating through the wood of a floor that you know to be relatively new but feels ancient. You finally step onto the stage and suddenly, it all appears in front of you.

The minute I walked out onto the stage, my eyes almost instinctively being cast upwards towards the upper galleries leading out to the open ceiling, I almost got light-headed with the sudden realization of where I was. For the first few minutes of the workshop, I had to bite my tongue because I noticed that my lip was quivering. Even though this building has only existed for 14 years, the context and the history of its ancestor makes the sensation seem all the more awe-inspiring. You can almost feel the latent energy pulsing through the space. You imagine that roughly 400 years ago, for a penny, you could stand in the pit and watch Burbage originate the role of Hamlet or see Will Kempe lead the cast in a jig in one of his many clown roles. Everything you think of when you think of Shakespeare seems to reside in this place, and as I realized that I was allowed to stand here and feel that energy, I understood that this was one of the truly great moments of my life.

I soon had to compose myself when I realized that I was, in fact, here to work and my mind soon sharpened as the workshop began. It's primary focus was addressing the challenge many actors face when performing in the Globe. As I continued to look around, trying my best to pay attention to what Yolanda was saying, I understood how difficult it would be to play a role in a space like this. With a 270 degree field around the stage, to the point where the audience almost surrounds you in three tiers of gallery seating, along with up to 700 Groundlings looking up at you, it's hard to decide where to direct you voice. And the answer is: you don't. An actor in the Globe needs to always be in a state of movement when it comes to both their body in voice. If you were to deliver a monologue in one place on stage, there would be hundreds of people who would have trouble hearing you, which forces an actor to find a way to direct their voice to an entire theater. The amount of concentration that would be involved to perform a role at the Globe does not cease to confound me.

The workshop involved a series of exercises devised to teach us both how to interact with the audience and one's fellow actors on the stage. As interesting as the workshop was, it made for an odd experience as tour groups continued to move through the theater as the workshop continued. I can only imagine the confusion felt by the tourists. They're here at the Globe, maybe for the only time in their lives, watching a bunch of Americans walking in circles around the stage, jumping, clapping, and shouting both gibberish and lines from Hamlet. It's interesting to consider that with all the pictures they were taking, I will undoubtedly be in some of them. I imagine years down the road, when they show their pictures from their holiday in London, they'll have trouble explaining why exactly there are people on the stage during the off season and what exactly they were doing. Another thing that will surely bring a smile to my face as I remember this day.

As the workshop ended, we were allowed to take some pictures as we prepared to leave the stage. I made sure to take many of the pictures that you see in this blog, as well as take a few more minutes to just stand on the stage, listening to the sound reverberate as my foot tapped the floor. I took one last look at the panorama of the Globe and slid back into the darkness of backstage, musing to myself, half-melancholy half-hope,  "My God, the things I'll have to do to get back up there.".

We had one more workshop before leaving. A movement workshop with Philip Cumbus, who never starred in any movies with Kevin Bacon, but has still developed an impressive resumé for a man as young as he is, including a few appearances at the Globe. I'm willing to admit that the workshop was a little bit underwhelming. Maybe it was the fact that it was made up of movement exercises that I already knew, maybe because it was conducted in one of the rehearsal rooms rather than the stage itself. But I still enjoyed every moment I had in that space and am so happy that things played out the way they did that day.

As we were getting ready to leave the Globe, I discovered two very interesting things. The first being a lovely set of postcards (which I'll be sending eventually...I swear). The second being a model for a new addition onto the Globe. I was completely unaware of this, but it looks as though they are just about to begin work on an Indoor Jacobean-style theater as part of the Globe complex.  Yet another reason why I know I'll return to that place eventually. Here's some info about the ongoing project.

http://www.shakespearesglobe.com/support-us/why-support-us/the-indoor-jacobean-theatre

The sun was setting as we loaded back on to the bus to head back to Birmingham. The bus ride presented even more opportunities to both see amazing sights in London and miss them just as you produce your camera, including a Diwali celebration in Leicester Square...*sigh*

With everything that happened, it's a wonder I was able to distill it all onto this page. I know that I'll spend many quiet moments for the rest of my life recalling that day. Everything that I experienced on that day further reinforces the duality of the nature of this profession that I have chosen for myself. Seeing the majesty of the Globe, feeling the wonder of what it would be like to perform there, coupled with the reality of how difficult it would be to get back there, seems to sum up the very essence of an actor's life. We know many of the things that we dream of can be almost impossible to achieve, but those things in and of themselves can still fill us with hope and remind us that as long we can still stand up straight and remember our lines, anything can happen. Until then, all we can do is prepare for what can happen and wait to see what does happen. I'll be sure to keep that in mind as my journey continues, both through this year and years beyond...

Cheerio, n'at.

I'm Gonna Learn How to Fly, HIGH!!!

Considering the whole reason I'm here in the first place is to go to school. I should give you guys the low-down on the Birmingham School of Acting.

Birmingham School of Acting, an affiliate of Birmingham City University, Millennium Point Campus.

The first time I walked into Millennium Point, I had thought that I was at the wrong address.

Opened in 2002, the facility was originally designed to house the Think Tank, an interactive science center. Eventually, schools from around the area started buying up space, creating a multi-school facility the likes I have never seen before.

When you first walk inside, you think you've walked into a mall or an airport terminal. The Birmingham School of Acting is located on the Ground Floor. When you first go in, you only see the front desk and a small lounge area, but once you scan your key card and go through the doors, you enter another space entirely.

The School is made of ten studios for classroom instruction and a black box theater, with student productions performed at many of the professional theaters around Birmingham. The school accommodates the four 3-year undergrad programs, as well as three 1 year-Masters programs  It's hard for me to describe exactly what it feels like to be here. At times, it feels like...it feels like...

From the moment you walk in, you're surrounded by raw expression.

Hearing singers practicing as you walk through the halls.

Seeing dancing and movement training as you walk past the glass doors of the studios.

The ambient sound of line running permeating the Common Room.

The jump at the sudden outburst overheard in the neighboring room, followed by the calm at the realization that the outburst was in iambic pentameter and it was just part of a rehearsal.

The fact that I spend all day here, devoting myself entirely to the very thing I'm most passionate about is an almost surreal experience. Despite the sheer number of hours I put in here, it almost never feels like work, a sentiment I hope I'll retain after more than two weeks of study.

Some of my classes here at BSA include:

Stage Combat - Extensive training in both armed and unarmed fight choreography. Last two weeks have been spent working with rapiers, studying original Elizabethan fencing texts, and examining how those techniques are applied on stage today.

Song - Vocal training with songs specially selected by Dom the Voice Coach (who looks suspiciously like Neil Gaiman). Special focus not only placed on proper singing techniques, but also the emotion and context behind each piece. Just because your singing doesn't mean you're allowed to stop acting! I'm currently working on "Pretty Women" from Sweeney Todd.

Contextual Studies - Considering my degree is Acting in the British Tradition, it's helpful to known what the British Tradition is. A comprehensive course dealing with British theater history from the tradition of pre-Roman Celtic storytelling to the present day.

Organic Movement - Using Eastern techniques including T'ai Chi and Chi Qong to wake up individual muscle groups, movement diagnostics for corrective movement studies, spacial exercises and interpretive movement sessions among other things. My muscles have been awakened...and they're angry!

Social Movement - Put on those rehearsal skirts and character shoes because this class deals in movement techniques throughout the historical periods of British Theatre. What constitutes proper Elizabethan posture? How does one escort a lady of the Restoration across a room? What the hell is the Victorian Fan Language? All questions I've had answered over the course of the last couple of weeks.

Speech - As much as I appreciate the detailed accent, phonetics, and elocution lessons provided by Alex, former Julliard instructor, I can't help but think of stuff like this in class...

As well as stuff like this...without quite as much dancing...

Ensemble - Choir practice basically. Something I haven't done in years, but it's always nice to get back in those SATB lines and harmonize. Currently working on "Madrigal" by Gilbert and Sullivan.

Voice Tutorial - Basically take the things we learn in Speech class and apply them through recitation with Alex. For now, we're working on The Sonnets of the Eternal Bard, Billy Wigglestick.

Practical Voice - "If I didn't know better, I'd say this Belgian woman is trying to teach us how to speak English." In all seriousness, Francoise has been doing a wonderful job challenging us on diagnosing our own standard speaking voices and finding avenues for improvement.

And finally...

Acting Workshops with David, a man just as quick with the Shakespeare quotes as he is with the dirty jokes. A man who dreams of spending his retirement editing Medieval Drama texts...or portraying the 12th Doctor. Acting generally runs in 4-hour blocks, an amount of time David never fails to fill. He has definitely been keeping us busy over the last couple of weeks. Whether it's  studying a monologue individual word by individual word, casting and blocking a full production of The Second Shepherd's Play as if it were to be performed on a pageant wagon in the village square in the Middle Ages, exploring the concepts of the clown in Shakespeare, defining what it means to soliloquize, or finding the humor in Titus Andronicus, David has challenged us every step of the way these past two weeks, something I hope he will not cease to do throughout the year.

I've been so lucky to get the chance to study here. This level of immersion into the craft was something I both did not expect and greatly appreciate. Each class is another piece of the puzzle used to create a well-rounded and astute actor, something I will, with a bit of luck, be able to call myself when this year is out.

These first two weeks have been all that I expected and more. But, there's something coming up this weekend that I did not expect. Make sure to keep your eyes open for my next post, wherein I chronicle The British Tradition's journey to London on Sunday for a workshop on the stage of the legendary Globe Theatre.

Cheerio, n'at.

Straight Outta Hockley

(At rise, a black taxi rolls up to a corner on Bull St. in the Birmingham city centre. ERIC tosses his bag inside and climbs into the back seat.)

CABBIE: Where are you going?

ERIC: Hockley, Hunters Road.

CABBIE: You're not from Birmingham, are you?

ERIC: (laughs) What gave me away?

CABBIE: Where are you from? Are you...Australian?

ERIC: No, I'm from the States. I'm going to grad school here.

CABBIE: Oh. So...why are you going to Hockley?

ERIC: Um...Because that's where my flat is.

CABBIE: Oh...so you live in the ghetto?

Looks like I just earned some more street cred, because I'm living in the ghetto...apparently.

To be honest, I had no idea what that cabbie was talking about. Granted, Hockley isn't the wealthiest neighborhood in Birmingham, but "ghetto" might be taking it a bit too far.

Architecturally speaking, it reminds me of Lawrenceville. Tightly spaced Brownstone-like houses originally designed to accommodate the influx of workers during the Industrial Revolution, Hockley still seems to maintain its working-class roots. The Irish and Eastern European Jews may have been replaced by the Pakistanis and Jamaicans, but nothing is lost in terms of character in this neighborhood.

Young Pakistani women walking around in abbayas, accessorized with Coach handbags. Young men dressed in traditional thawbs, accentuated with Chuck Taylor high tops.The Afro-Caribbean market, right next to the Electronics Store, The Halal Butcher, and the chippy. Old and New Britain, side by side, a dynamic and diverse backdrop for the next year.

The university owns a number of properties in the area and his been renting them out to Acting students for years now. Roughly 20 Acting students living within a 3-block radius of one another, yet another reason why I'm more than comfortable with Hockley being my Home Sweet Home for the next year.

Oh, not to mention two pubs and a Kebab House within walking distance. Yeah, that helps too.

Mmm. I could really go for some Doner kebab right now...I wonder if they're still open...I'll be right back........

Cheerio, n'at.

The Burgh to The Brum Part III: Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon

For your listening enjoyment as you read this blog...

When last we left our gallant and devastatingly handsome hero...

I had just completed both a a two-hour layover in Charles de Gaulle and an epic battle with Doubt (the state of mind, not the play/film, a different journey altogether).

I landed in Birmingham International Airport to a light rain on the tarmac. I walked over to the Border Agency, Landing Card in hand. After a lengthy conversation in line with both a Brazilian and a South Carolinian concerning American v. British accents and how Brazilian women are "most beautiful in world", I finally made it to where I was next in line, only to realize that I had filled out my Landing Card in pencil when they needed it in pen. Furiously grasping for one of the pens tethered to a table near the line, I scrambled to fill out my form properly. With my form a hastily scribbled mess, I can imagine the agent pondering how I managed to actually get into grad school when I could barely write.

After answering a barrage of questions, I collected my bag from the carousel, moving toward customs. The confusing thing being that there was no one in line and no one with bags being checked. As I cautiously moved through the room, I finally asked one of the agents if anyone needed to check my bag. "You have anything to declare?" the agent asked. "...No" I answered. "Then keep movin', you're holdin' everyone up!" he responded. I feel safer already!

Oscar Wilde, when asked by a customs agent in New York, "Have you anything to declare?" once famously responded "I have nothing to declare except my genius!" I later regretted not taking the opportunity to use that famous quote in an act of witty reversal, but I then realized that a bit of smart-assery like that in an airport might not go over as well these days.

After a cab ride with my Dad to the hotel and a lengthy jet-lag recovery period, we set to work picking up all the things I now realized I had forgotten at the local Tesco, including basic grocery items, toiletries, and the odd appliance here or there (Including an electric kettle at 10 pounds; after a week of use, one of my wisest investments to date).

After a couple of days of assistance, my Dad went off to the airport and returned to Pittsburgh <3.

As I mentioned in the previous post, I had a great deal of trouble fighting with my doubts back in the airport. I questioned whether I had made the right decision and if being in Birmingham was the best thing for me. As soon as I started living in the house on Hunters Road and getting to know my housemates, however, I knew that I might just be able to make this work.

And now...the starting line-up for Hunters Road and honorary citizens of Burghingham...

Dan (Kensington, Maryland) (MA Acting in the British Tradition)

Katie (Cheyenne, Wyoming) (MA Acting in the British Tradition)

Chris (Las Vegas, Nevada via Long Beach, California) (MA Acting in the British Tradition)

Daniele (Philadelphia, Pennsylvania) (MA Acting)

Von (Washington D.C.) (MA Acting)

Sarah (New York City, New York) (MA Acting in the British Tradition)

Jack (Coventry, West Midlands, United Kingdom) (MA Professional Voice Practice)

Featuring:
Catherine (Santa Monica, California) (MA Acting in the British Traditon)

Amie (Long Beach, California) (MA Acting in the British Tradition)

Dayle (Columbus, Ohio) (MA Professional Voice Practice)

and Olivia (Castlewellan, Northern Ireland, United Kingdom) (MA Professional Voice Practice)

as neighbors and constant visitors...

After getting a chance to know these wonderful people and experience how helpful they've been,  I came to realize that we are all in the same boat. We're all away from home, trying to make what we can out of this new chapter in all our lives. We're all susceptible to the same feelings of doubt and we're all willing and able to help each other along the way. I knew at that point that I can make it happen while I'm here.

And now, as I get ready to start my first full week of classes, I know that whatever happens out there, I'll be able to get help and support from all the people back here...

 (P.S. That's us on the left.

 I was going to include some more pictures and info about the house itself and the neighborhood, but it gets so dark, so early around here that it's going to have to wait for another time.)

Cheerio, n'at.

The Burgh to The Brum Part II: La Vie En Noir

After the events detailed in our last installment...

I proceeded back to the house, finally arriving around 1:00 am. The events of the following hours remain something of a blur. I do remember at one point or another in the cold, pure hours of the morning, in an almost catatonic state, standing on my bathroom scale with each of my suitcases, attempting to get each one under the regulation 50 lbs for Air France. Followed by me frustratingly getting off and proceeding to play musical chairs with articles of clothing, arbitrarily grabbing handfuls of rolled clothes and transferring them from bag to bag, praying I hit those magic numbers.

At long last, I zipped up my last bag, each perfectly balanced and each under the maximum weight limit, just as the alarm I had set last night, naively assuming I would sleep at some point before an 8-hour trans-Atlantic voyage, began to slowing ooze the soothing tones of NPR into my room...

Not long after, I exchanged sweet-sorrow partings with my Mother, as she not-very-subtly attempted to slip me an extra $100 for the trip. <3

Eight hours to go until I had to leave for the airport.

As much of a slobbering, incoherent zombie as I knew I would be if I didn't get any sleep, I couldn't for the life of me make it happen. Maybe it was excitement, maybe it was my body thinking I was back in college during an all-nighter and sending me an Incredible Hulk-style adrenaline rush. Whatever the reason, eight hours passed and I finally set out to pick up my Dad (my traveling/materiel gathering buddy) and take to the skies on my way to Her Majesty's Realm.

Eight hours in Coach can be rough. Eight hours in Coach sitting next to a 5-year old with Tourette's Syndrome when you're just about to fall asleep for the first time in 24 hours...

In the end, I was determined not to let a harsh flight get the better of me. After all, I was in Paris...

Dad and I were on the same flight into Charles de Gaulle, but we had to take separate flights into Birmingham, his leaving two hours before mine, leaving me with two hours to kill in the airport...How bad does that sound?

To answer that question, if I ever direct a production of Jean-Paul Sartre's No Exit, I'd replace the Second Empire furniture with the orange and yellow bench seats of Gate 24.

This is not entirely a judgement on Charles de Gaulle Airport, the clientele who frequent it, or the city of Paris at large. Granted, the young woman selling me my Coca-Cola at the cafe seemed to lose all patience with me the minute she heard my slightly American-accented "Bonjour" and the old French gentleman sitting uncomfortably close to me in the terminal were slightly irritating. But the real reason those two hours in the terminal were so unpleasant can be found at a slightly closer source. In other words, to adjust that famous Sartre quote:

"L'enfer est soi-même." "Hell is one's self."...

I say this because it was during those two hours, I was quite possibly the most uncomfortable I have been in years. As I awkwardly sat in my molded plastic chair, snapping my head back every five minutes after realizing I had been drifting off to sleep, wiping away the sweat that made me feel as though I had a thin layer of slime over my entire body, Doubt began to roll in. The doubt that seems to cross the mind of everyone after they make an important life decision. Doubt took a seat right next to me in the terminal, cleared its throat, and slowly began its disjointed dialogue with my brain.

"I just don't know. Eric, what are you doing here? Are you really making the right decision? Here you are, leaving Pittsburgh, the city you love, along with all your friends and family, to go to school for a year in a city you know next to nothing about. You're gonna miss them all so much! Why are you even going to this school? How did you even get into this school? You're a terrible actor!  Who do you think you're fooling? Who do you think you are, anyway? YOU SUCK, ERIC!!!"

"L'enfer est soi-même."


Considering the fact that I'm sitting in my apartment in Birmingham writing this right now and not still huddled on the carpeted floor of Charles de Gaulle Airport slowing rocking in a fetal position muttering and weeping, it goes without saying that I was able to work my way through these feelings. My confidence has been fully restored and I eagerly await the beginning of the school year.

What managed to pull this stone off from around my neck? Will our hero still be dashed to pieces on the jagged rocks of his own subconscious?...Well, it's late and I'm far too exhausted to type all that up now. :p

Tune in next time for the thrilling conclusion of the "Burgh to the Brum" saga. Coming soon to a Blog-o-Sphere location near you.


Cheerio, n'at.

The Burgh to The Brum Part I: And Then A Hero Comes Along

 Finally, after three days with wi-fi being either unavailable entirely or set at outrageous prices, I am finally able to tell the story of my travels. (Note: I started this blog post as I sat in the terminal at Pittsburgh International. It was unfortunately cut short with the boarding of my flight.

Pittsburgh International Airport...

A hub that on occasion actually lives up to the "International" component of its moniker.

Air France Flight 8617 to Charles de Gaulle, two-hour layover, Connector to Birmingham, my ultimate destination.

As I sit here in the terminal, glad to be rid of my checked baggage: three full suitcases all painstakingly set at the Air France limit of 50 lbs., I realize that I'm really going to miss Pittsburgh. Not just because of my friends and family and all of the other things that make Pittsburgh wonderful. But because of moments like last night...

As the sun began to oh-so-frustratingly set around 8pm, I drove myself to finally finalize packing my bags. As I rolled T-shirts, stowed shoes and sweaters, and pressed as much weight as I could on my suitcase to get it to close, I had a sudden realization. I had promised my friend Bill that I would loan him my copies of Neil Gaiman's Sandman to read while I was away. So at around 10:30, I called Bill, only to find out that he was at our mutual friend Brad's house on the South Side. Hoping to get this done as quickly as possible so that I could get some sleep before leaving the Burgh, I parked the car in a lot near the 10th Street Bridge, grabbed an armful of graphic novels and walked a few blocks over to Brad's.

Bill was getting ready to leave when I arrived, so we met on the street, exchanging hugs and Sandman volumes. As I handed the books over to Bill, my hands fell instinctively to my side, revealing a horrible truth...my keys were not in my pockets. In my rush to get my books and phone out of the car and head over to Brad's, I completely forgot what I had done with my keys.

As soon as the expletives stopped flying, I asked Bill to give me a lift back to the lot, all the while my head full of frightening scenarios. "What if I left my keys on the roof of the car and someone took them?" "What if I left my keys on the roof of the car and someone took them...and used them to take my car?" As we pulled into the lot, I immediately pulled up the flashlight app on my phone and frantically began searching the area, only to find that...I had locked the doors of the car and left the keys in the ignition...&%$#^*@!!!

After a few minutes of anger-masking laughter, Bill and I finally started thinking of ways to fix the situation. Call a locksmith? How many of those are out and about at 11:00 pm on a Tuesday night? Not to mention how much that might cost. Call the police? Yeah, but then again they might just solve my problem with some carefully placed nightstick-to-window action. Wake up my parents and ask them to bring their keys over? Sure, and hear on the whole ride home from my mother how this is some sort of omen and that I shouldn't be getting on a plane now? Finally, Bill takes out his phone and calls Brad's house. After a couple minutes of listening to a one-sided conversation explaining my plight, Bill puts the phone down and says: "Don't worry, the A-team is on its way!"

In a few minutes, emerging from the late evening fog, came my friends Brad, Dave, and Steve. Armed with straightened coat hangers, screwdrivers, plungers, and all manner of implements that television has taught us can be used to break into a car, they immediately set to work trying to get the driver's side door open. After a few fruitless attempts, me all the while either holding a flashlight or standing off to the side laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation, we began to formulate other possible strategies. Deciding to take a chance, I phoned the South Side Police Station. I was informed by the officer that too many civilian complaints had forced the Police Department to no longer allow officers to open locked doors for the public...&%$#^*@!!!

Eventually, Brad, Bar Bouncer and Guardian Angel, informs me that he has a AAA account and would be willing to call them to help me get the door open. Excitedly listening in as Brad called the number on the back of his membership card, I overhead that a AAA employee is on his way to assist us with our problem and will be arriving in approximately...90 minutes...&%$#^*@!!!

Roughly 83 minutes later, the AAA guy arrives on the scene, producing his "tools" which, oddly enough, looked almost exactly like a straightened coat hanger. Employing almost the exact same methods that we had tried, he managed to get the door open.

Just before the AAA worker arrived and began the process of opening the door, Dave and Steve elected to go down to the corner gas station to get some snacks. They arrived just in time to see my door opened and keys returned to me. Being the good friends that they are, they arrived on the scene with a five-pack of White Owl strawberry-flavored cigarillos, a tacky yet greatly appreciated gesture to celebrate this now triumphant occasion.

As we stood in a small circle in a South Side parking lot, smoking our gas station cigars. I realized two things. The first being that I'm truly lucky to have such wonderful, devoted friends. Second, if things had gone according to plan, if I had dropped the books off to Bill, said "Goodnight", went straight home, finished my packing with enough time left for a good night sleep, not only would my send-off not been quite as memorable, I wouldn't have this story to share with my own loyal contingent within the mighty Blog-o-Sphere. It's moments like this that will make me miss Pittsburgh and make my return for Christmas seem all the more exciting. Until then, with a bit of luck, I'll be able to share some more misadventures with you all through this blog, hopefully ones that don't involve this much inconvenience. And with that, this one goes out to The A-team: Brad (Hannibal), Steve (Face), Dave (Howling Mad Murdock), and Bill (B.A.) for being the heroes of my departure.

Coming soon: The Burgh to The Brum Part II: La Vie En Noir

Cheerio, n'at.

In Which Our Hero Begins His Tale...

Welcome to Burghingham, a state of mind existing somewhere between the borders of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, USA and Birmingham, West Midlands, UK.

I'm Eric Mathews: Chief Citizen of Burghingham...

Earlier this year, languishing in the disjointed void wherein so many post-graduate liberal arts students find themselves, I was resolved  to go to New York...not in any "bright-eyed, 'Look out, world. Here I come!', That Girl" capacity. Rather, I intended to participate in the University/Resident Theatre Association auditions, as well as a few open calls, in the hopes of getting into grad school for Theater. I was content to test my theatrical mettle and see where my abilities could land me.

After a somewhat less than encouraging audition with one of the New York schools, my friend Rachel informed me of an open-call audition being held by Birmingham City University. At first, my bruised ego was compelling me to stay in the hotel room, drowning my sorrows in hallway-vending-machine Coca-Cola and daytime television. Eventually, perhaps through Rachel's encouragement, perhaps through the steadily increasing claustrophobia being induced by my disturbingly small hotel room. I put my coat on, marched through a snowy Midtown and signed in for the audition...

A few months later, having returned to Pittsburgh and basically forgotten about the auditions entirely, a snowy white owl flew through my window and handed me a piece of parchment, informing me that I had been offered a place in the School of Acting at Birmingham City University. Thus, the impetus for this blog emerges.

Admittedly, after hearing the news of my acceptance, I remember hearing myself say "I'm going to Birmingham! That's awesome!... Wait, What do I actually know about Birmingham???" Despite my shameful ignorance of Brum, the more and more I read about it, the more and more excited I became. As a Pittsburgher, I discovered that Pittsburgh and Birmingham share a great number of things in common, including a strong industrial tradition, a desire to create a new identity for the 21st century, near indecipherable accents, and an affinity for the use of the word "pop" when describing carbonated beverages.

Two cities, often framed by outdated, 19th century perceptions by their own countrymen, both on their way to a new identity in the new century. What that means and how it will happen have yet to be seen, but I do know that it makes for a hell of a backdrop as the curtain goes up on my year of grad school at BSA.

The purpose of this blog is to serve as an account of my journey through the city of Birmingham and points beyond over the course of the next year. This year, I hope to share with you my triumphs, failures, love, heartache, rapture, pain, apprehension, minutia, and everything in between.

Well, I'd say that's quite enough exposition for now. Stay tuned this week as the journey begins.

Cheerio, n'at!